Kurt barely let the feedback from "Spank Thru" die before he stomped the pedal again and leaned into the mic, voice flat and quick.
"Anorexorcist."
Rory lifted his sticks without looking up. His wrists were loose, ready. He could feel the room now—the way the floor had settled into the band's pulse, the way people were leaning forward instead of back. Good sign.
The song came in crooked and hostile.
Kurt's guitar chopped at the air, short and jagged, like he was cutting the riff out of the amp instead of playing it. Krist slammed in right after, bass thick and ugly, following Kurt but dragging just a hair behind, making everything feel slightly wrong in the best way.
Rory hit hard immediately.
Kick. Snare. No warm-up.
Lock it, he thought. Don't rush. Let it hurt.
His drumming sat somewhere between punk and something heavier—Bonham's weight with a feral edge. He let the kick drum breathe, then cracked the snare like it owed him money. The cymbals stayed tight, sharp accents instead of wash. He wanted the song to feel claustrophobic.
Kurt sang like he was accusing someone.
Not shouting yet—just that flat, nasal delivery that sounded bored and furious at the same time. He barely moved, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed somewhere past the crowd. The lyrics came out clipped, uncomfortable, like he didn't care if anyone understood them.
A kid near the front muttered to his friend, "This one's fucked up."
His friend nodded. "Yeah. I like it."
Krist leaned into the groove, hair swinging, bass rumbling like a bad thought you couldn't shake. He smiled once when Rory slammed a fill across the toms—quick, precise, violent—then locked back in without missing a beat.
Rory felt it all clicking.
They're with me, he thought. Good. Stay mean.
The song didn't end cleanly. Kurt dragged the last chord into feedback, Rory answering with a final crash that rang just long enough to make people uncomfortable.
Someone shouted approval. Someone else just stared.
The manager, standing near the side, felt his stomach twist—not fear, exactly. More like recognition.
This isn't amateur noise, he thought. This is a band figuring itself out in public.
The venue owner watched from the back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not annoyed, just focused.
That kid on drums, he thought. He's driving this.
Kurt didn't announce the next one.
He turned to Krist, nodded once, then looked back at Rory. Rory tapped his sticks together twice, soft, like a secret count.
The riff that came next was simpler.
Bigger.
//
The guitar started alone—four rough chords, slightly muted, buzzing like they were barely contained. Kurt played them loose, letting them scrape against each other, not caring if they rang perfectly.
Rory came in with a huge beat.
Open hi-hat. Heavy kick. Snare dead center.
The groove was undeniable—primitive, stomping, the kind of rhythm that made people move before they realized they were doing it.
Krist locked in immediately, bass mirroring the riff but thicker, rounder, making the whole thing feel physical.
Rory felt a flicker of recognition in his chest.
There it is, he thought. That shape.
Not the song yet—not that song—but the energy. The push-and-pull. The quiet tension coiled under something explosive.
Kurt leaned into the mic, voice low, almost conversational at first.
"Bleach baby, white-eyed stare
Clean your hands but the dirt's still there"
His voice cracked slightly on there, and he didn't correct it.
The audience perked up. Heads started nodding. Someone near the bar said, "This one's catchy," like it surprised them.
The verse stayed restrained—Rory holding back just enough, riding the groove, keeping it tight. He could feel the chorus coming like a wave.
Kurt's guitar opened up, distortion spilling wider.
"Load me up, I'm bored again—"
The chorus hit hard.
Rory smashed the crash cymbals, snare snapping louder, kick pounding straight into people's chests. The room jolted. A few kids jumped instinctively.
Krist grinned, stepping closer to the edge of the stage, bass booming.
Kurt half-sang, half-yelled now.
"Bleach baby, make it clean
Scrub the scream out in between"
It was messy. Raw. The melody wasn't polished, but it didn't need to be. It stuck.
Rory felt it in his arms, the way the beat wanted to get bigger.
Don't overplay, he reminded himself. Let the song breathe.
He threw in a quick fill—tom, snare, crash—then snapped right back into the groove.
A girl near the front turned to her friend. "I'm gonna remember this one."
The manager's eyes widened.
That's a single, he thought, then immediately shook the idea away. No. That's a problem. That's a future.
The venue owner leaned forward slightly now, interest clear.
This one's gonna bring people back, he thought.
The song ended abruptly—Kurt cutting the guitar dead, Rory slamming one final hit.
For a split second, the crowd didn't know whether to cheer or catch their breath.
Then they cheered.
Kurt wiped his face with his sleeve and muttered into the mic, almost apologetic.
"This is… uh… Rehearsal Number One."
Krist laughed. Rory smiled to himself.
//
The song started goofy and hostile at the same time.
Kurt played the riff sloppy on purpose, leaning into its dumb charm. The guitar tone was thin and sharp, like it was mocking itself.
Krist bounced along, bassline loose, playful, still heavy but less oppressive.
Rory switched gears instantly.
Lighter on the kick. Snare snapping quick. A little swing creeping in—not enough to smooth it out, just enough to make it feel unstable.
This one's a release, Rory thought. Let them breathe.
Kurt sang with exaggerated phrasing, almost cartoonish, leaning into the absurdity. A few people laughed outright. Others didn't know whether to.
That was fine.
The song lurched and stumbled, the band deliberately rough around the edges. Rory tossed in fills that felt like punches and jokes at the same time—sharp accents, sudden stops, then right back into motion.
A guy near the back shook his head, smiling. "These dudes don't give a shit."
His friend replied, "Yeah. That's why it works."
The manager relaxed for the first time all set.
They can do ugly, he thought. And they can do hooks. That's dangerous.
The venue owner nodded once, satisfied.
They belong on this stage, he decided.
The song crashed to an end in a mess of cymbals and feedback.
Rory let the last crash ring out, hands still, chest rising and falling.
He looked over at Kurt and Krist—sweaty, wired, alive.
Different timeline, he thought. Same fire. Maybe bigger.
The crowd was fully with them now.
And Nirvana wasn't even halfway done.